


A Blanket of Stars

by fairiestiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, The Last Song
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:23:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairiestiel/pseuds/fairiestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Life, he realized, was much like a song. In the beginning there is mystery, in the end there is confirmation, but it’s in the middle where all the emotion resides to make the whole thing worthwhile.” - Based off of Nicholas Sparks’ “The Last Song”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Have to Love Something Before You Can Hate It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! So this is my first Destiel fanfic ahh! So this is based off of “The Last Song” by Nicholas Sparks. It will definitely have differences though, including the ending, because Sparks' books are beautifully written but they never have good endings. But anyway, I’ll probably write a prologue for this later on in the story. Thanks for reading! I love you all.

"Bobby, I'm not going," Dean huffs as he stares out the car window on the way to the airport, his arms crossed and his charcoal-outlined eyes narrowed into slits.

"Boy, I don’t give a flying fuck about what you wanna do; there's nothing you can say that’s gonna make me changed my mind. You and Sam haven't seen your father in years, and I'm sure one day you'll thank me one day for making you go," Bobby Singer looks over at him with unusual pleading eyes from his position in the drivers seat of the shittiest car Dean’s ever been in. "It won't be that bad, I swear. John's a good man, Dean."

"He's fucking not, Bobby," Dean turns to face his and runs a hair messy hair, ignoring Bobby’s scowl at his cursing. "He left us! When I was seven! When Sam was three! He was never there for us, Bobby, I don't understand how you could just forgive him so easily; just last year you said you never wanted to see him again, and now you're practically forcing me to go spend an entire summer with him? In  _California_ ? I don't get it," Dean turns his back to Bobby again and stares down at his worn out converse, biting at his pierced lip. Bobby sighs.

"Dean-" he starts,

"Oh, shut up, Dean," Sam speaks up from the back seat, pulling his headphones out of his ears. "You're seventeen years old, for God's sake, I think it's time to stop being so damn - sorry, Uncle Bobby - stubborn and just grow the hell up." 

“I thought you were on my side, dude!” Dean huffs, throwing his hands in the air.

“Well _sorry_ ,” Sam draws out the syllable. "But you're being a fucking idiot." Dean forces down the smile tugging at his lips, finding the curse word coming from innocent little Sammy oddly amusing.

"Dean," Bobby says gruffly, sounding oddly cautious, which is totally out of character for him, "everything's, uh, gonna be alright. It's only for a couple of weeks, and it won't kill you to get away from those douchey friends of yours that seem to know how to get you in deep shit."

Dean knows what Bobby's talking about. Back home in Lawrence, he wasn't exactly the angel child of the small town. 

Before the day that his father left their family in the dust, Dean was living the perfect apple-pie life in northern Kansas. He went to a really nice public school and was actually quite popular and had a lot of friends. On Saturdays, he’d throw the football with his dad in the backyard while Mary was in the kitchen making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and fresh lemonade. Dean and John would run in through the backdoor, their elbows and knees covered in grass stains, and scarf down their lunch with toothy (and food-filled) grins. Sam would sit in his highchair and giggle like a maniac at every move Dean made. Dean tried to be the best big brother he could be to Sammy; he knew one day the kid would become something great.

But everything changed when one night Dean awoke to his parent arguing downstairs. At least he thinks it was arguing. He couldn’t make out anything being said but it sounded serious considering John was screaming words Dean had never heard before at the top of his lungs while Mary shushed him every few seconds. Finally he heard stomping footsteps that ended with a hard slam of the front door. Dean heard his two-year-old brother whimpering in the neighboring room, so he crawled out of his bed and tiptoed into Sam’s room. He slept on the floor beside Sam’s crib that night, which seemed to calm them both immensely, and continued to do it every night Mary and John had a fight loud enough to wake Sam.

Eleven days after Dean’s seventh birthday, his father slammed the door for what seemed like the millionth time. He never came back. For a while, Dean was alright. He missed his father terribly, of course, and it tore him up. But he still had his mother, who did everything in her power to make sure him and Sammy had the best life possible with only one parent, and his friends, and Bobby, who was practically his uncle.

That was, of course, until Mary was pinned under in her office building as it collapsed due to a fire in the lower level. She had tried to get out but the fire blocked the main doors and by the time she was halfway to the fire exit, it was too late.

When Mary died, Dean had nearly lost it. He’d completely abandoned his old friends and stopped taking care of himself. Bobby moved in with Sam and Dean, and instantly became their new parent, but Dean just felt empty. He started spending less time socializing and more time up in his room by himself, reading or listening to grungy bands that screamed in his ears until the sound drowned out the sadness that thudded deep inside of his chest. He hung around with kids who wore black and  drank immensely and did whatever kind of drug they could get their hands on, but Dean swore he'd never do any of that; he'd lost too many of his friends to it. 

His peers at school started whispering to their friends as he passed them in the dull hallway. He had changed into completely different person. He’d felt abandoned and was never one to express his feelings, so he just kept it balled up inside until it started leaking in between the cracks through eye liner and band t-shirts and piercings that hurt like hell. But  everything hurt like hell in those days. Still, the people in Kansas couldn’t see past his ripped jeans to the fragile little boy inside, waiting, waiting, waiting, for his father to come back and save him. But John never called, even when Dean was sure he knew that Mary had passed. Dean was fucking angry at his father for abandoning his responsibilities, for abandoning his  family , but is sadness drowned that anger in a pool of dark water that Dean was desperately trying not to drown in.

The only good thing that had come out of the whole ordeal was that Dean had come out. It’s not like anyone cared if he was gay or not though. No one cared about where he decided to stick his dick. No one cared about him at all.

Except for Sammy. He had helped a lot. More than a lot. His brother had saved his life. Even at such a young, Sam rose to the position of being the man of the house. Taking on all of the responsibility that was supposed to be on Dean’s shoulders, most of the time without even realizing it. In the first few months after Mary had died, Dean knew that he never would’ve made it through if it weren’t for Sam being a little encouraging ball of sunshine. As they grew older, Dean became known as “the troublemaker” and Sam took on the name, “the sensible one.”

John called the day of Dean’s 17th birthday and told them that he had moved to Malibu, and that he wanted to see Sam and Dean again. Bobby had instantly agreed, wanting them both to have a father figure in their lives. A  real father figure. Sam was reluctant, but eventually agreed; he never even got the chance to know his father. Dean, on the other hand, outright refused. How he ended up the passenger’s seat of Bobby’s pickup on the way to see his dad for the first time in ten years, he will never figure out.

The arrive at the airport and Bobby smacks both of their shoulders a little too hard, then sends them off to catch their flight. Dean trails behind Sam who definitely has four-too-many bags, and he stares at the boots of his girly shoes as he walks a few feet in front of him. Sam looks up at the flight schedule that’s lit up in red and green lights.

_MALIBU, CALIFORNIA : NOW BOARDING_

Sam turns to Dean and gets right up in his space.

"Listen, Dean, I know this is hard for you, but please, just try to get along with him? For me? At least he's making an effort to try and get to know us, alright? Give him some credit for that." And seriously, sometimes Dean forgets that Sam is the little brother in this relationship.

"Yeah, ten years too late," Dean mumbles under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing,"

"Okay then, can we go board our flight now? Please, big brother?" Sam tugs on Dean’s sleeve like the four-year-old girl he actually is, and Dean smiles at him, feeling lucky to have such a good brother.

The flight is painfully long, but Dean manages to sleep through the majority of it, though, which is curious, since he usually has trouble sleeping in his own bed at home, much less an uncomfortable chair on a plane. But, nonetheless, he sleeps fairly well, and he feels almost good as he walks out of the terminal with his brother two steps behind him.

His almost happy mood completely vanishes when spotted his father smiling timidly beside the gate. He looks exactly like he did ten years before, except his hair is a lot more gray and the creases in the skin on his face are much deeper. Dean’s stomach drops to the floor. He thought he would be able to do this with a little maturity, but when he looks into his father’s eyes for the first time in a decade, all he feels is his blood boiling to the surface. His fists clench into tight balls and Sam, obviously, notices.

“Dean, calm down. You’ll only make the situation worse,” Sam whispers in his ear. Dean shrugs him away as John approaches.

“Uh, hi boys,” John stutters out.

“Hi Dad!” Sam practically leaps in John’s arms and he smiles into Sam’s shoulder. Dean glares.

“Dean,” John nods in acknowledgement towards Dean, who doesn't say a word. He looks Dean up and down, taking in his new appearance, a total opposite from the clean-cut look that Dean used to sport when he was a kid.

“Okay, so, I’ll guess we’ll be going.” John picks up their luggage and brings the car around, some souped up little Mercedes that Dean instantly hates. He wonders what John did with the Impala.

_If he sold it, I’ll kill him_ , Dean thinks bitterly.

Their father throws their bags into the small trunk and Dean climbs into the equally-small backseat. He lets Sam take shotgun, not in any mood to be around his father. The drive to John’s beach house is filled with Sam’s chatter of what’s been going on in the part of his life that John had missed, which is basically all of it. This just pisses Dean off even more.

As soon as the car is in park in front of the house Dean is out the door and walking back down the road from which they came.

“I’m going out,” he calls over his shoulder. Sam will tell John this is a regular thing for him. And if he doesn’t, oh well. He deserves to worry, to take back some of the pining Dean’s been doing over him for the past ten years.

The only thing Dean likes about California is the weather. He soaks up the sun as he walks down the side of the road, even though he's wearing too many dark clothes, he still enjoys the heat.

Dean walks and walks and walks until he sees a fairly large lit-up sign that read "The Roadhouse," which is ironic because,according to the sign, The Roadhouse is apparently a large outdoor club on one of the piers right beside the beach. There's beams of bright lights shining up into the sky and reflecting off the ocean. The music's loud and obnoxious and the annoying pop genre that clearly demonstrates how this generation has no taste in music. It’s also the beginning of summer, so he figures it will be full of piss-drunk teenagers doing stupid shit. But Dean really needs a drink, and he’s got a fake ID, so he could probably blend right with them and maybe pretend like his world isn't crumbling down around him. He crosses the road and then makes his way down to the edge of the pier, where he manages to squeeze through the crowd of sweaty, teenage bodies.

Dean pushes through until he reaches bar and sits at one of the worn stools, then clears his throat in order to get the attention of the bartender, whose back is turned. The man, closer to a boy, really, turns around and fixes Dean with an icy-blue stare. He pushes dark hair away from his eyes and lets his eyes travel from Dean's face down to his toes and then up again in a way that Dean finds oddly annoying and demeaning. Dean rolls his eyes because clearly this kid is the typical California hot-shot who thinks he's the shit. So when their eyes meet again and the man smirks, Dean boldly stares right back into the blue depths.

“Hmm?” The man inquires, tilting his head to the right slightly. Dean wonders if he does that a lot. Probably.

“Pass me a beer, would you?” Dean says, making sure to embed his voice with the indifferent tone that let people know not to mess with him. He honestly isn't in the mood to deal with a jackass who thinks of himself as superior to anyone who doesn't have a shitload of money.

"Sure," the bartender answers, not even bothering to ask for an ID, then and shoots him a smile that Dean just shrugs off. He really doesn't need this flirty shit right now, not with everything that's going on right now with his father. Sure, this man is admittedly attractive, and Dean has to physically stop himself from staring as the bartender turns around and bends over and grabs a bottle from underneath the counter. He turns back to Dean, whose eyes snap back up, and slides the beer across the bar with a kind of practiced grace.

"What's your name?" the man asks him, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans and then look up at Dean though long eyelashes. Dean tries not to think about the way they flutter against his cheeks prettily.

"Uh, Dean," he says, not expecting such a personal question from a man that's obviously way higher up on the social ladder than Dean is, and his bored expression slips off of his face in favor of confusion for a moment, but he quickly recovers and rearranges his expression into one of feigned disinterest. He will not be fooled by the kindness of this stranger. "My name's Dean Winchester."

"Hello, Dean. I'm Castiel Novak." _Wow, what a pretentious name for a pretentious ass._ "I don't believe I've seen you before. I know most of the kids around here; we all grew up together, for the most part," says the man, Castiel.

"Not surprising," Dean says, sipping his beer before looking back up at Castiel with an indifference that he hoped the bartender would believe. "Just moved here from Kansas. My brother and I are spending the summer in this hellhole with my kind-of father."

"'Kind of father?'" asks Castiel, whose eyebrows pull together.

"I don't really consider him my father," answers Dean. "But I guess he technically is. I mean, he and my mom did the nasty and then nine months later I popped out, if that counts." Dean sneaks a glance up at Castiel, who he half-hopes he scared away due to his crudeness, but Castiel just laughs, so he continues.

"He's never really been around, the fucking bastard. He left when I was seven, even after my mother died, and never looked back. I was left to take care of my three-year-old brother, Sam. He's great, but he deserves more than just me. Sam's the only family I've had since then, except for maybe Bobby. My dad didn't even bother contacting us again until just recently." Dean doesn't really know why he's telling a stranger, and an arrogant one at that, about his daddy issues, but it's kind of nice to vent to a person who Dean knows he will probably never meet again. He takes a long pull from his beer.

"I know how you feel," says Castiel, to Dean's surprise. "My mother died in childbirth, and my father left when I was only a few months old. It was a long time coming, though. My father saw my mother in me and finally couldn't bear being around me any longer, so he just abandoned us, leaving me in the care of my siblings. They're insane, but they're family." If Dean notices Castiel smile to himself, he doesn't mention it.

"What are their names?" Dean finds himself asking.

"You can't laugh," says Castiel, cautiously. Dean chuckles and raises his right hand in the air.

"I, Dean Winchester, solemnly swear that I will not laugh upon hearing the names of Castiel Novak's siblings." That makes Castiel grin in a way that makes a lump form deep in Dean's throat, though he has _no_ idea why.

"Alright, alright. There's a lot of them, though, so get comfortable. My oldest brother is Micheal. He's a control freak but he practically raised the rest of my siblings before I was even born, so if it weren't for him, my family would be in pieces. Then comes Lucifer, although we call him Luke, because that's a seriously unfortunate name. He has a habit of getting into trouble. Then there's Raphael. We haven't always been on exactly good terms, but he's still my brother, so we're working through it. After him is my only sister Anna, defiant but sweet, and I love her to pieces. She's engaged to a man named Samandriel; they're getting married in a month. Then lastly, before me, is Gabriel, who is almost an exact replica of Luke and likes playing pranks and ridiculous things like that." There's a pause while Castiel just stares at Dean, probably waiting for him to say something. Dean hesitates and then blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind. 

“No offense man, but your parents must’ve been high as fuck when they named you guys,” Dean chuckles lightly but then subtly glances at Castiel for any sign of annoyance.

Castiel grins. “They were. Literally. Major hippies." Dean barks a laugh at that.

Castiel smiles back as he looks past Dean with glassy eyes, most likely replaying a memory in his head that he's particularly fond of. Dean takes the opportunity to stare at Castiel with a perspective that wasn't completely clouded by his preconceived expectations, unlike before, when he had thought Castiel was going to be an ass.

Castiel's really hot. Like, _really_ fucking hot. He has dark tousled hair that he has obviously run his hands through countless times that day. His smile is pretty and eyes that are so gorgeously blue that Dean feels his mouth go dry. If he had any doubts that he was gay before, they disappeared very quickly now.

Suddenly, a girl with fiery red hair appears next Dean, seemingly mostly sober, unlike most people in the club/bar/whatever-the-hell-this-is. She's dressed a lot like Dean in grungy black, and her eyes also match his, outlined with dark eyeliner.

"Hey, Castiel," she says and throws him a friendly but tired smile. "Can I get a beer, please? It's been a long fucking day." She sighs and drags her fingers through her hair as Castiel bends down again to grab her a bottle. Dean doesn't even try to stop staring at his ass this time, much more intrigued in this man than he should be. The girl turns to him.

"Well, hello there." She winks. "Who's this?" Castiel snorts and starts washing off dirty glasses in the sink behind the counter as he speaks.

"This is Dean Winchester. He just moved here from Kansas. Dean, this is Charlie Bradbury." Dean politely waves at Charlie, who gives him a saucy wink that Dean would've taken as a flirtation if an olive-skinned girl who was dressed similarly to Charlie had not just walked up and planted a deep kiss on Charlie's mouth. So she swings _that_ way.

"C'mon, babe. I wanna dance." She tugs on Charlie's hand and sticks out her bottom lip in a pout.

"I'm _coming_ , Gilda. Jesus, wait a second." She giggles and then turns to Dean. "We should totally hang out sometime, I think we'd have a ton in common." She smiles and grabs a napkin off the bar, then proceeds to write her phone number on it. She shoves it into Dean's back pocket when she's finished. "See you!" Charlie saunters off behind Gilda and soon disappears into the crowd.

Dean takes a swig of the now lukewarm beer as he turns back to face Castiel. He glances at the clock on the wall.

"Shit, I gotta go. Sam's gonna be worried." He slaps a bill down on the bar and slides off the stool, turning to leave.

"Dean, wait!" Castiel nearly shouts, and Dean turns back around with a raised, pierced eyebrow. Castiel blushes briefly but quickly recovers. His lips pull into a confident smile that has Dean weak at the knees like a fucking girl. "I'm here on Friday and Saturday nights. Come see me again?"

“Sure, Cas," Dean smiles at him. "See you around.” And Castiel tilts his head (yes, that is clearly something he does a lot) at the nickname but doesn’t say anything. His lips pull up into a soft smile as Dean turns to leave.

“Goodbye, Dean.” 


	2. Never Forget That God is Your Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! I just wanted to let you all know that my tumblr is ezekels if you want to check it out. Thanks so much. xx

Dean hates California.

The weather is fucking bipolar. One minute, it’s sunny and warm and perfect. The next, it’s 60 degrees and there are ominous clouds hanging over his head, threatening his mood and his fucking expensive black leather jacket.

Dean walks along the crowded shore with his hands in his pockets. Sand fills his shoes but he tries to ignore it. He needs new shoes anyway.

It’s around 11:00 AM. Dean had snuck out of his father’s house in the early hours of the morning while Sam was still asleep in the bed next to him. John is probably flipping his shit right now, wondering where his son is, or maybe he isn’t. He hasn’t cared for the past ten years up until now. Either way, Dean honestly doesn’t give a shit. The crisp ocean air and sunlight had felt good against his anxious skin. That house makes him feel claustrophobic. 

But now, he looks to the sky and prays that it won’t start raining because seriously,  _it was sunny not five minutes ago_ . He walks a little farther and finds a teenage boy with a weird haircut arguing with his parents, who are packing up their things, clearly preparing to outrun the storm.

“But mom, seriously. I have to go. It’s, like, the biggest party of the summer! Just  please let me go.” He stomps his heel into the sand, kicking it up and practically blinding Dean, who rolls his eyes and continues walking.

_Californians_ , he thinks, _always such divas._

After a while of internally making fun of snarky, tantrum-throwing teenagers and their obnoxious parents, Dean’s path leads him to a crowd of teenagers playing a particularly rousing game of volleyball, despite the coming rain. Out of pure boredom/curiosity, Dean lets his eyes scan the crowd of people surrounding the makeshift court, looking for no one in particular. He doesn’t see anyone that really catches his attention until he  does .

The boy is standing near the far right corner of the court on the sidelines with his arms crossed over his chest. Cas. His hair is dark with sweat and Dean wants to sink his fingers into and just  yank . His smile is bright and _oh God_ , he’s shirtless. And Dean doesn’t remember how to breath for a moment.

But then Dean realizes that Cas is staring at someone on the court and Dean’s stomach drops down into his toes. A girl. Of fucking course. The flirty looks Cas had been shooting at him at the bar last night had obviously been all in Dean’s head, because this dude is clearly straight as a board. The girl is gorgeous, with dark, wavy hair and pretty brown eyes and a body he's pretty sure any girl his age would sell her soul for. Dean’s instantly envious of her and the tiny crush he'd been harboring for Castiel suddenly grows a little.

The girl’s team scores and she jumps up and down, then throws herself into Cas’ arms. He wraps his arms around her after a second’s hesitancy and maybe a slight look of annoyance but Dean thinks he's probably just making that up to make himself feel better. All he can see is that Cas has _someone else in his arms_ , and the green-eyed monster in Dean’s mind kicks him in the balls.

Then Cas suddenly meets Dean's eyes and for a second he's pretty sure his heart stops. Then Castiel puts the girl down and starts frantically waving his arms over his head, yelling something incoherent. But, because God hates him or he just has bad luck, before Dean can even take a step towards Cas to question why the _hell_ he is making a fool of himself, something solid collides with his ribs. He forgets how to breath again; this time longer than just a moment. 

-

A few moments later, Dean comes to, lying flat on his back with sand up his shirt and an aching right side. There’s a beautiful creature hanging over him with a wrinkled brow. For a short minute, Dean wonders if he’s dead because  _damn_ , this must be heaven.

Then he realizes that the creature staring down at him is Castiel. Still, though.

“Dean? Dean, are you okay?” Castiel says, worriedly. Dean smiles weakly and blinks up at him.

“Yeah, man,” Cas reaches for his hand and yanks him up, and once Dean’s done ignoring the buzz that shoots up his spine at the feeling of Cas’ hand in his own, he realizes the other man is still not wearing a shirt and takes a second to drink him in. He’s not terribly big, muscle-wise, but he’s toned. Sweat trickles down Cas’ chest and stomach until it disappears into his swimming shorts. Dean tries to ignore the happy trail there, still in denial about the new feelings he has for this stranger. Cas clears his throat awkwardly and Dean meets his blue eyes again, heat creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks, despite the new found chill in the air. He wills it away.

“Uh, thanks.” Dean says, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. He looks around to find the rest of the crowd have gone back to playing volleyball, leaving him and Cas standing alone. 

“No problem,” Cas does his endearing little head-tilting thing and Dean fights down his blush again. He plays with the piercing in his lip, a nervous habit he'd developed since he'd first gotten it when he was fifteen.

“Yeah,” Dean says awkwardly and looks down at the sand.

_Why am I acting like a thirteen-year-old girl with her first crush? Jesus,_ He clears his throat.

“So, uh, whatcha been up to?” Dean asks, trying to redeem himself for being such a girl.

“Oh, I’m here to see Meg play,” Cas doesn’t have to point his finger for Dean to know who Meg is. He barely holds back his scowl. “Are you here by yourself?” He cranes his neck in order to search over Dean’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Dean raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“No reason,” Cas answers a little too quickly. Dean doesn’t miss the blush he tries to hide by ducking his head. Dean’s heart rate picks up and he tries not to think about what that could implicate. He has an awful habit of jumping to conclusions and getting his hopes up, only to be shot down later. And although his appearance may seem intimidating, inside he's always been secretly afraid of getting his heartbroken, especially since his father left.

Before Dean could say anything more, Meg calls Castiel back over and Dean thinks she sends him a look full of  _back-the-fuck-off_ but he definitely could’ve imagined it because he  _did_ practically just pass out. The green-eyed monster that Dean just had pinned down for the moment turns him over and knees him in the balls anyway. Again. Dean sighs.

“You’d better get back to her,” he says, still trying to regain his dignity. Cas furrows his brow.

“Won’t you stay? The kids over there never talk about anything but money and parties and drugs. I can hardly stand it. Sometimes I can’t even remember why I hang around any of them, honestly.” But Dean remembers. Castiel is rich, popular, and probably has a pair of stuck-up parents at home, too.  _Of course_ Cas would lead him on even though he clearly has a girlfriend.  _Of course_ he would make feel inferior. The kids that live here are all alike; they’re snobby, pretentious brats.

_But you know Cas isn’t like that_ , says the little voice in the back of Dean’s mind that still hopes he has a chance with Cas.

“Shut up,” Dean mumbles to the voice. Cas, _damn him_ , tilts his head again.

“Dean? You're, uh, no offense, but are you okay? You’re acting awfully strange,” Cas says with what Dean  thinks  is genuine concern. This man confuses the shit out of him.

In the distance he can here Meg’s voice calling for Cas again. They both ignore it.

“What? Oh, no man, I’m good. Just a little tired,” he chuckles awkwardly and peaks up at Cas from underneath his eyelashes and hopes to God he believes the lie. Dean needs to get away right now before he says something else stupid. He opens his mouth to excuse himself when he’s suddenly interrupted.

“Castiel, what the hell are you doing over here?” The now familiar, angry voice is a lot closer to Dean now than it was two minutes ago. He cringes and turns to find Meg glaring at him over her obviously expensive sunglasses. She's clearly trying to put on a fake smile, but it's so easy to see through that Dean almost laughs.

Cas looks at him with blue, apologetic eyes and then walks over to stand beside Meg, who slinks a possessive arm around him as soon as he’s close enough. The monster inside his head shoots a satisfied smirk his way and Dean really wants to smack it right off.

He watches as Meg’s eyes trail down his body and back up to his face in a decidedly non-sexual way. She scoffs at his dark ripped jeans and his eyeliner and his messy, dull brown hair.

_Pretentious bitch_ , Dean thinks bitterly.

But he refuses to let his insecurities block his confidence, especially because Cas is staring at him with his bright blue eyes and toned body and swim trunks and seriously Dean hates what his life has become. He clears his throat and puts up his usual front of poise and self-assurance.

“Sorry, Cas, I can’t stay. I've got to get back and check on my baby brother. Damn troublemaker. But I’ll see you around, yeah?” And then, in the heat of the moment, Dean feels a surge of fearlessness and a need for retaliation towards Meg, so he coyly winks at Castiel.

Cas looks at him curiously and then back to Meg again, clearly deciding how to react. But then he smirks and fixes his eyes on Dean's with that same flirty gaze from last night at the bar.

Meg’s eyes flicker from Castiel to Dean, obviously trying to hold down her anger.

_Mission accomplished_ , Dean thinks with satisfaction.

Cas waves goodbye and tugs Meg until their both headed back towards the volleyball court. Meg keeps shooting glares over her shoulder and Dean just laughs hysterically.

After he’s calmed down, he realizes his face is wet. Dean’s good mood slowly diminishes as he realizes it’s started raining. He takes off down the shore towards the house and by the time he’s walking up the boardwalk to the back door, he’s absolutely soaked and shivering. He takes slow steps up the wood, not looking forward to the wrath that will soon be laid upon him for sneaking out. But when he opens the back door and steps inside, it’s not yelling that startles him; it’s music.

Dean’s insides twist up. The sound of the piano playing brings back too many painful memories that Dean hasn’t had time to prepare himself for yet. Memories of the beautiful grand piano in the foyer in his old house come flooding back. He closes his eyes and sees him and his father sitting side-by-side playing simple classical music until Dean was old enough to start learning more complex pieces. He’d gotten really good at it, and had received many compliments on his natural talent. His father had written a  [ song ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8wxOVn99FTE) for him when he was six, a few months before he’d left. It was beautiful, and Dean had picked up on it and learned how to play it almost immediately.

Back then, he’d had no idea why his father wrote the piece, but he understands now.

It just makes Dean hate him even more.

When John left, he’d still play; it reminded him of the good times his father and him had shared together. But when Mary died and John didn’t come back, Dean swore he would never touch a piano again in his life. The piano was a symbol of John’s love for Dean, something that clearly didn’t exist anymore.

He’d come back to his father’s house late last night and he hadn’t really been paying attention to the furnishings of the house. Frankly, he hadn’t cared. It was dark and he was tired and Sam was nagging him too much about “giving Dad a chance,” or some shit. He’d walked right to his small bed and landed face first into the pillow. He didn’t move until early the next morning, when he’d snuck out the bedroom window while Sammy was still dead asleep in his own bed.

So imagine Dean’s surprise when he peaks into the small living room to find John playing an old, but still very beautiful, baby grand piano while Sam sits beside him on the bench, watching John’s fingers brush across the keys. John’s eyes are closed and he’s singing along quietly. Both Sam and John are both clearly oblivious to his presence

Dean recognizes the  [ song ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8wxOVn99FTE) instantly and feels tight pressure behind his eyes. The tears come without reserve and Dean wants to run far, far away, until he can’t see or hear or feel anything because everything  hurts . He manages to make his heavy feet move so he can stumble to his and Sam’s shared bedroom. He collapses on his bed and cries silently.

He doesn’t speak, he doesn't cry out, he just lets the tears stream down his face quietly.


	3. Ironically, He'd Yet to Leave a Good Impression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you catch any mistakes, feel free to let me know! Enjoy. xx

Dean has this really bad habit of fooling himself into believing that he’s not completely fucked up.

Sometimes its easier than others, like that time, four years ago, while Bobby was out doing whatever the hell he did at the auto shop on Saturday mornings. Sam had been in their tiny kitchenette, reaching high for his favorite box of cereal, when he slipped and busted his head wide open on the corner of the counter. Sam’s piercing wail had woken Dean, who had rushed in, wide-eyed and slightly hysterical, and cradled his nine-year-old brother’s head like it was the most fragile thing in the world. He’d decided to call 911 because maybe he’d been a little overly vigilant when it came to Sammy’s safety, but the kid looked like he was on the verge of passing out, and there was a _lot_ blood gushing out of his shaggy head. The ambulance had arrived a few long minutes after he had made the call, and rushed him off to the local hospital, where he received six stitches. A few hours later, while Dean was staring down at an unconscious Sam from a chair he’d dragged up to the side of the hospital bed, he’d felt almost like one of those brave adventurers in the movies Sam liked to watch in the middle of the night. He’d known it was a bit egotistical, something Dean didn't deserve to be, but he’d been so _tired_ of feeling guilty, so _tired_ of feeling like he wasn’t good enough, and so _tired_ of feeling like absolute shit.

-

It turns out four years really doesn’t change a person all that much, because Dean wakes up in a room with too-bright lights that remind him of hospital fluorescents and he’s still feeling like absolute shit.

He cracks one puffy eye open; his throat feels scratchy from all the crying that definitely _didn't_ happen last night, and his internal clock tells him it’s definitely too early to be awake, especially because it’s early summer. But before he can shut his tired eyes again and desperately hope for dreamless sleep that he knows won't come, he hears his father’ voice.

“Um, Dean?” John sounds _very_ uncertain and _very_ uncomfortable.

Dean starts, jerking so hard that he almost falls off the bed in a mess of tangled sheets.

He peaks out from underneath his warm sheets and finds John standing a safe distance away from his bed. Dean sneaks a peek at Sam’s bed, which is unsurprisingly empty. The kid _never_ fucking sleeps for more than five hours a night, hasn’t since Mary died, and Dean doesn’t understand how Sam is even alive right now with how much sleep deprivation he must have.

Dean often wonders if that’s Sam’s retribution for their parents’ absence; Dean gets petrifying nightmares, while Sam just doesn’t sleep at all.

“Dean,” John’s voice steals Dean’s attention away from his thoughts. “I, uh, thought you might like these.” He throws a pair keys onto Dean’s lab and for a moment Dean is silent because has no idea what his father is on about.

And then realization hits him like a freight train.

“No way,” he says, disbelief seeping into his tone. _No fucking way_.

He stares at John with wide eyes.

"She needs a little fixing up, but other than that she's in fairly good condition," John says with a sheepish smile tugging at his lips, and Dean can't help but grin back. "She deserves an owner who will take good care of her. I sure as hell can't."

And Dean's pretty sure this is just his father trying to buy his forgiveness, but he's so ecstatic that he really couldn't care less in the moment. So, he rolls out of bed and stumbles out his bedroom door passed his father, yanking a pair of pajama pants over his boxers and John calling, "She's in the barn out back!" after him.

Dean scrambles through the living room, ignoring Sam's confused stare from his position on the ratty loveseat. He scoots out to the barn, the screen door banging behind him.

The barn is a faded red, the paint peeling off and the wood and the front doors are falling off their hinges but it reminds Dean of home, so he welcomes the familiarity. He grabs the rusty door handles and yanks the ancient barn open to find a 1967 Chevrolet Impala staring back at him.

She’s beautiful. When John told him about her, Dean had been automatically afraid that the car would just bring back horrible memories from his childhood. And it did bring back memories, but they were pleasant memories, memories Dean didn’t even know he had. He closed his eyelids and saw himself and Sammy sitting in the back seat, playing with legos and army men. His parents were in the front seat, holding hands across the bench and conversing quietly as John drove them to God-knows-where. Every once and awhile, Mary would glance back at her children and sent a quiet smile towards Dean, who grinned back wildly and giggled like a maniac. It had to have been at least twelve years ago, and Dean has no idea how he’d managed to push it down so far that it’s just now resurfacing. He smiles to himself; it’s the first time in a long time that he’s able to think about his mother without it being associated with bitter heartache and grief.

Dean slowly walks up to the car, running his hand along the chipped paint of the hood. His lips curve up at the edges slightly, still cautious of the emotional pain she could potentially cause. He peers inside through the side window and sees that the interior of the car is in good enough condition, just in need of a good vacuuming. The engine and transmission, however, both need to be replaced, and she _definitely_  needs a new paint job. He can do most of it himself, he had helped Bobby out around the garage more than enough times to know his way around a car, but he still needs parts and someone’s going to have to do this damn paint job for him because he’s completely clueless as to how to do it.

“Dad,” Dean says to his father as he walks back through the front door. John looks surprised to hear that work come out of his mouth, but Dean deliberately ignores both that and the piano in the back corner that he can just see out of his peripheral vision. “I’ve got to go get some parts for the Impala, I want to have her fixed up as soon as possible. Can I borrow your car for half an hour?” Even Dean is surprised at himself for talking to John with such ease. 

Dean’s not giving up that quickly.

“Sure, son.” John tosses Dean the keys to his Mercedes. Sam’s still sitting on the couch, giving Dean a look that’s even more baffled than it was before. Dean ignores him.

“Thanks,” Dean responds as he snatches the keys from the air. He turns to leave, but stops and turns to John again. “Do you know where the nearest junk yard is?”

“There’s one behind Malibu Auto Service. It’s about four miles that way.” John points his finger in the direction that he means. Dean says thanks again with _almost_ a half smile and walks out the door.

-

His ten minute drive to Malibu Auto Service, consists of some very hard contemplating on Dean’s part, and by the time he pulls into the parking lot of the garage, he’s in a foul mood and his head is pounding like a bitch.

He walks up to the front door, which has a sign hung on up that says, “ _I'm around back,_ ” in a messy scrawl that reminds Dean of his own boyish handwriting. He walks around back and into the garage, seeing no one at first glance. But then he hears a cough coming from lower than expected and looks down to see a pair of legs sticking out from underneath an outdated Honda Civic.  
“Can I help you with anything?” And Dean instantly recognizes the voice that has been haunting his thoughts for the past few days, and seriously _what the fuck is Castiel doing in an auto shop_?

“Cas?” Dean says mock-curiously, trying not to sound too eager. “Is that you?” He already knows the answer. He hears a loud clank that Dean suspects is Cas putting down his tools and _damn_  if a grease-covered Cas isn’t an arousing thought.

But his thoughts are nothing compared to what he sees push himself out from under the car and onto his feet.

The man is _covered_  in grease, the dark streaks creating stark contrast to his pale skin and bright blue eyes. He’s wearing the stereotypical blue coveralls, which are also coated with grease, and this is practically Dean’s most desired fantasy. He feels all the blood in his body rush downwards.

He realizes he’s staring before Cas does, though, thank God.

“Dean!” And Dean has no idea how someone could be so sexy and so adorable at the same time. He guesses it’s a Cas thing.

Cas wipes his hands on his coveralls and extends one of them to Dean, who takes it shakily, and he's suddenly very aware of his attire.. He probably looks ridiculous, the eyeliner he'd slept in was most likely halfway down his face by now, especially from all the not-crying last night. His amber hair was a knotty mess and he desperately needed a shower. Dean can't afford to look this hideous when Cas is standing there looking like a god.

“I, uh,” he clears his throat. “I need some parts for, uh, my car. She’s kind of old but she’s new to me and I love her a lot already and I really want to fix her up really good because she’s a great car, real badass, you know?” And Dean knows he’s rambling but he’s getting harder by the second. He really needs to get out of this hot as hell garage and go somewhere where he can jerk himself off to the imaginary image of a grease monkey Castiel hanging over him. “And I can do it all myself, I just need a few parts, um," he laughs a little hysterically. "I don’t know exactly though, I guess I can swing by tomorrow, when I actually _know_ what I’m fucking looking for. I can’t believe-” That’s when Cas graciously puts one finger to his lips to shush him and the touch sends electricity down his spine and his dick twitches.

Yeah, he really needs to get out of here.

Cas snickers at his babbling and looks down (accidentally or purposefully, Dean will never know), and Dean internally panics because he knows Cas has seen his hard-on; he’d have to be blind not to. His jeans are tenting up quite obviously and Dean’s switching his weight from one foot to the other, waiting for the inevitably disgust and rejection.

But it doesn’t come, not at all. On the contrary, Cas’ eyes drag up slowly from Dean’s crotch to his eyes in a very carnal manner, despite his current unkempt state.

_Holy fucking shit._

“You have pretty eyes, Dean,” and that is definitely _not_ what Dean expected to come out of Cas' pretty mouth. He also doesn't expect him to turn, lower himself back onto his creeper, and push himself back under the car like nothing had happened between them.

Dean would be pissed if he wasn’t so fucking turned on right now.

“I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow, Cas,” and before Dean can do anything more to embarrass the shit out of himself, he bolts out of the garage door and back to the safety of John’s Mercedes. And if takes Dean ten extra minutes to get back home because he has to pull over into an empty Walmart parking lot to relieve himself, well then that’s his own business.


End file.
